Heart Strike by M. L. Buchman Page A

four-engine cargo planes. She’d jumped out of plenty of Hercules, as the C-130 was known, but…
    â€œWe don’t have to fly one of those, do we?” Melissa tried to decide if she was excited and terrified. She settled on the former. She’d jumped out of them any number of times, but felt a new appreciation for their huge size. Four stories tall, a hundred feet long, and with an even bigger wingspan. Each monstrous engine had a four-bladed propeller and each blade was taller than she was. To pilot something that big—
    â€œAt thirty million dollars each, I would guess that the drug cartels have very few aircraft like that. They also aren’t very…” Vito’s tone was drier than desert air, “…subtle.”
    â€œBut we don’t get to fly them, do we?” Richie sounded as eager to fly one as she felt.
    â€œThe Coast Guard prefers their planes to remain undamaged.”
    Melissa tried to tell if Vito The Priest was joking or not. If he was laughing, it was only on the inside.
    He led them past the last plane, out through a security gate, and over to a long, two-story building made with five-foot bands of red-and-white brick. As they passed through the security gate onto the lawn surrounding the building, she could see that he was leading them toward an aircraft parked on the grass—a display aircraft. Approaching from behind the plane, it didn’t look that big, but with each step closer, it grew. The night, even here with streetlights around them and both of her feet on the ground, was messing badly with her depth perception. By the time they walked beneath its wing, fully two stories above her head, she was feeling very small.
    â€œHowever,” Vito spoke for the first time since she’d spotted the craft, “you might be asked to fly this one. The USCG retired the Grumman HU-16 over three decades ago, but these are still plentiful in the fleets of marginal and third-world markets. They can carry four tons over three thousand miles and don’t need an airport to land in.”
    â€œI’ve never flown a seaplane,” Richie commented.
    That’s when Melissa focused on the monster before her. It had a wide belly that looked like a boat hull and the wings had pontoons the size of Zodiac Special Forces boats hanging from them.
    Melissa nudged Richie with her shoulder. “And all you can think to say is that you haven’t flown a seaplane before?”
    â€œWell I haven’t.” Richie waved at it as if it wasn’t bigger than the Victoria Harbour houseboat she’d grown up in.
    â€œI also haven’t ever flown a 747,” Melissa answered him. “And no, I’d rather not try one of those at the moment. I have flown seaplanes, but they were little ones. Maybe the size of this one’s wing pontoon.”
    She’d started in standard planes. After work, she’d hop on her bicycle and race out to Butchart Gardens where her brother was an arborist. They’d bike together for the last few kilometers to Victoria International and go flying. Afterward, they’d race the thirty klicks home along the Galloping Goose Trail.
    They’d worked out a complex scoring system of who cycled fastest and how few corrections they’d received from their flight instructors to determine who had to shell out for gelato. The two of them would come zooming into the heart of Old Town, Victoria—fast, furious, and sweaty on their bikes—and spook the tourists ambling down the street with their Hudson’s Bay bags.
    On their fateful climb up Mount Rainier, they’d talked about taking seaplane lessons.
    Her brother hadn’t survived to take them, so she had taken them in his memory. There had been more tears than joy each time she’d climbed into the de Havilland Beaver floatplane and taken off out of Victoria Harbour. His dreams had always been simpler than hers. They’d each buy a houseboat to